You shower quickly, brush your teeth, and go back to your room to dig through the cardboard boxes of clothes looking for...
Jeans. Shirt. Boots. Jacket.
It might not be the most eye-catching collection of clothes anyone has ever worn, but it does the job. You're warm and you can run, jump, and kick arse if you need to.
You give yourself a quick once over in the mirror and head out into the living area to see the pack.
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The den is a warehouse. Or, at least, it used to be. Once, maybe not even that long ago, the only thing anyone would have seen when they walked in the front door would've been a large open room, filled with boxes, and maybe a forklift or two.
Whoever had rented it before the pack clearly had a different vision.
Marco thinks it was an illegal nightclub. Ed says it was probably the home of a cult. Vicky refuses to speculate.
All you know is that before the pack moved in there was already a ton of interior walls, patched together from plywood and pine. They formed several rooms, hallways, and a bathroom. Even the tiny kitchen at the very back was fitted and ready to go.
The only thing the pack needed to make this place a home was a couple of sofas and an obscene amount of family photos stuck onto every wall.
You glance at some of those photos as you pass. Weddings, birthdays, weekend fishing trips. They look like a normal family. And they are. Mostly. They just happen to grow claws and tails sometimes. But every family has its quirks.
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